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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690026">play me like a violin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedbethefallen/pseuds/blessedbethefallen'>blessedbethefallen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hand Jobs, Headaches &amp; Migraines, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:20:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690026</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedbethefallen/pseuds/blessedbethefallen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The panic was starting to set in, the panic of being totally alone with only his pain to keep him company. He squeezes the pillow tighter to his head, the rapid thuds seeming to get louder - the blinding pain has him gritting his teeth. Then the thuds are gone, replaced only with Sherlock's voice, eager and loud.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>play me like a violin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I do not own any rights to BBC Sherlock or any of its characters.</p>
<p>Thank you to Brii for being a supportive editor. </p>
<p>Here's to my first piece of work in years!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is a blistering pain that is not hot, but scarring. It feels as if he is being assaulted by every noise, no matter how quiet it may be. The pillow that he has pressed over his face is not offering much besides physical comfort. The morning had been alright enough, despite the sleepless night he had, but somewhere between "waking up" for the day and now, a migraine formed, pounding its fists against John's skull relentlessly. It had been so long since his last migraine that he thought maybe he would be lucky, that maybe it had been the last one. Of course, it was not a realistic thought, but it made him feel more optimistic.</p>
<p>
He had done everything he could think of doing. Every light in 221B Baker Street was off, every curtain drawn shut. A pair of migraine pain relievers were taken an hour ago that had little to no effect. There is a note left on the coffee table just in case Mrs. Hudson comes up to check on him. At first dreadfully - and now thankfully - Sherlock had been missing since the prior afternoon. John says <em>missing</em> lightly because it is not unlike Sherlock to disappear for days on end at times. The silent apartment had made John hyperaware of his solitude, making it hard to sleep. Which, ultimately, led to this. </p>
<p>
He feels the ticking of the clock from the living room like a hammer against his temple, his stomach in knots as he urges the pillow to put him out of his misery. The throbbing in his head is rapid, matching his ever-increasing heartrate. The panic was starting to set in, the panic of being totally alone with only his pain to keep him company. He squeezes the pillow tighter to his head, the rapid thuds seeming to get louder - the blinding pain has him gritting his teeth. Then the thuds are gone, replaced only with Sherlock's voice, eager and <em>loud</em>.</p>
<p>"John!" The sound of something dropping onto the floor and another onto the couch. "I have the most <em>wonderful</em> news!" John keeps his jaw clenched, a hot red flashing behind his eyes as the words crash into his head like a train. The silence that ensues lets John know that Sherlock found the note. He hears nothing else for a long moment, ears ringing while the pressure of the words bounce around his skull.</p>
<p>John almost thinks he imagined Sherlock coming home with how quiet it had gotten, until he feels the bed dip down slowly beside him. The air shifts, an electric feeling coursing through his veins that lets him know that he did not imagine Sherlock. No, Sherlock was right there, probably <em>deducing</em> everything about John right now. John wonders if Sherlock will try to talk anymore, he wonders if Sherlock is even aware that he is awake.</p>
<p><em>Of course, he is. Sherlock knows everything</em>. How true the statement felt in any situation other than this; any situation that had a solution.</p>
<p>The touch on his arm causes him to startle, shifting away automatically from the touch, hugging the pillow ever closer. The hand retracts as quickly as it had been put there but returns confidently to John's elbow. Sherlock's cool, thin fingers trail down his arm to his side, a barely-there pressure making everything suddenly feel like a dream. Sometimes, he could not be sure Sherlock was anything more than a phantom - haunting the world around him while holding all the answers in his hand.</p>
<p>John sucks in a sharp breath that causes the pain in his head to blossom quickly when he suddenly feels the button of his trousers is undone. "Sher-" His own voice breaks off with the pain in his head. The other man in the room stays completely silent, giving a pause to allow more if John had anything to say. His zipper is undone when John stays quiet, the zip noise being quick but thunderous.</p>
<p>
"Do you trust me?" The voice is so small that John thinks he may have imagined this. Maybe he was imagining all of this. John grits his teeth and manages a grunted, "uh-huh." Another moment and suddenly, his trousers and pants are down.</p>
<p>The air of the room is chilling but John's body has already began warming up. He is focused on his breathing, trying so hard to ignore the throbbing of his head while the suspense looms just behind his eyelids. John's body does a low arch when Sherlock's long fingers wrap around his shaft. "Sherl-" is the broken noise that sounds from his throat, causing the fingers to become hesitant. Without permission, John's hips rock into the pressure, a strangled noise muffled by the pillow he bites. <em>Bloody hell</em>, the blinding pain. He feels like his head is going to explode.</p>
<p>
When his body settles back into the mattress, Sherlock's fingers begin to move. It is slow to start, impossibly smooth skin rubbing along his hardening member. Breathe, John reminds himself, taking in a shaky inhale as a thumb swipes over the head, spreading a thin veil of precum down the side of his shaft.</p>
<p>He cannot help but think this is exactly how he would picture this going. With Sherlock being precise, methodical. It was a solution that came through science, he has no doubt of it. That is the only reason this was happening. After all, nothing else would make sense.</p>
<p><em>I must be dreaming</em>. Even science could not possibly explain this away, right? It would not be an out-of-line dream - the fingers of Sherlock Holmes had caught his attention from the first day. The strokes speed up steadily, his muscles twitching with the restraint he forces himself to have. "Oh, Sherlock," John gasps against the fabric of the pillow's case.</p>
<p>It is not rushed. Nothing with Sherlock could ever be rushed. Everything was viewed as a full process, the journey along with the result. Sherlock always knew which steps to take to get them where they needed to be. The man with the skilled fingers that could play a violin; that could shoot a gun; that can hold a skull. Powerful hands that held power the world could not even imagine.</p>
<p>The pressure is building up inside of him, the throbbing in his head harsh with his pounding heart. His fingers clench and unclench, fistfuls of pillow grasped and released repeatedly. His hips keep twitching up. It is almost embarrassing, just how much his body reacts to the touches. It is an incredible magnetic energy, pulling all the pressure into a tight coil in his groin. He is so close, his tight muscles desperately looking for relief. He groans against the pillow, his knuckles white where he grasps it. </p>
<p>It is the sudden warm, wet feeling around the tip of his shaft that is his undoing. His body is completely out of his control, his mind whirling quickly as he cums, biting the pillow to stifle the long moan he releases. The ringing in his ear is loud enough to make nothing else exist as he feels his muscles begin to relax. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel the world around him spinning. He catches his breathe against the fabric he still holds to his face, his lungs screaming for new air. He moves the pillow away slowly, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling with each slow lung full of air.</p>
<p>The room is quiet and the pressure beside him on the bed remains. John counts backwards from 20 and when he opens his eyes, he's surprised to realize it comes unaccompanied by pain. He turns his head to the side, meeting the eyes of one of the oddest men in London. "Sherlock." John can't bring himself to care about how breathless he sounds.</p>
<p>"John," Sherlock responds, his face blank from any emotion, eyes calculating, closed off, prepared for rejection... "Are you alright?"</p>
<p>John blinks against the dim lighting of the room, his brain forming again slowly. The blistering pain from before had disappeared, the only sign it had been there a dull ache behind his left eye. His eyes are locked onto Sherlock's when he nods. "Much better."</p>
<p>A pleased, smug smile came across Sherlock's lips, nodding. "Ah, yes, I'm glad. Orgasms have been known to be an amazing solution to migraines for some. A direct experiment seems to concur with that claim, at least in your case."</p>
<p><em>Science</em>. It's what John had been thinking before but knowing this now makes it seem so much more exhilarating. <em>He's completely mad</em>. "Oh, that's wonderful. At least I have my own in-home doctor."</p>
<p>They hold each other's gaze for a few beats of silence and John cannot stop himself from breaking out into a fit of giggles. Sherlock tries for a moment longer than John had, but he too ends up breaking into laughter. "Well, you can't expect to be able to treat yourself, Dr. Watson." John rests his head back, closing his eyes, a smile still playing on his lips. "And now that that's out of the way, did you know that there is a colony of rats living in the sewers? One that works together as a unit, many small parts to one larger whole. The intelligence that they have, the ability of communication present, can be used to get more information from Graham or Mycroft..."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review with your honest thoughts! If you enjoy my content, feel free to follow me at blessedbethefallen.tumblr.com!</p>
<p>Believe in the power you possess everyday.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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